She rather expected that the reporter would appear some time during the afternoon; and sure enough he did. He could no more resist the desire to see and talk to her than he could resist breathing. There was no use denying it; the world had suddenly turned at a new angle, presenting a new face, a roseate vision. It rather subdued his easy banter.
"What news?" she asked.
"None," rather despondingly. "I'm sorry. I had hoped by this time to get somewhere. But it happens that I can't get any farther than this house."
She did not ask him what he meant by that.
"Shall I play something for you?" she said.
"Please."
He drew a chair beside the piano and watched her fingers, white as the ivory keys, flutter up and down the board. She played Chopin for him, Mendelssohn, Grieg and Chaminade; and she played them in a surprisingly scholarly fashion. He had expected the usual schoolgirl choice and execution; Titania, the Moonlight Sonata (which not half a dozen great pianists have ever played correctly), Monastery Bells, and the like. He had prepared to make a martyr of himself; instead, he was distinctly and delightfully entertained.
"You don't," he said whimsically, when she finally stopped, "you don't, by any chance, know The Maiden's Prayer?"
She laughed. This piece was a standing joke at school.
"I have never played it. It may, however, be in the cabinet. Would you like to hear it?" mischievously.